Disappearing Home Read online

  Disappearing Home

  Disappearing Home

  Deborah Morgan

  First published in 2012

  by Tindal Street Press Ltd

  217 The Custard Factory, Gibb Street,

  Birmingham, B9 4AA

  www.tindalstreet.co.uk

  Copyright © Deborah Morgan 2012

  The moral right of Deborah Morgan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P OLP

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 906994 32 7

  Typeset by Tetragon

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD

  For John, with love

  1

  When they first sent me out to steal I was ten years old. The bag bothered me most. It was dirty on the outside as well as the inside. With brown leather handles that were frayed down to white wire. They burned your skin if held for too long. Later, they told me I held it too high, like a bloody shield, and too far away from me when I walked with it. They said I held it like it was a disease. It’s only soil. A bit of soil can be easily washed away. I was making it obvious. That was the last thing you did, make it obvious. That was stupid cos that’s how you get caught and if you get caught you’re on your own, you stupid bitch.

  Coffee and salmon, I am to take nothing else. Two large jars of coffee and three tins of salmon. Boneless salmon. Tinned salmon doesn’t take up much room. Get four tins if it’s easy. I have money for a packet of malted milk biscuits.

  When I get to the till I am to make sure the bag is zipped all the way along. The zip has teeth missing halfway and sometimes it refuses to slide any further. I take one jar of coffee, drop it into the bag. And two tins of salmon. The zip glides easily to the end and I let out a breath.

  The lady at the till smiles. ‘Aren’t you a good girl, doing your mum’s messages?’ I smile back and step outside into the cold, where they are waiting.

  The second time, instead of holding the bag up high, I am to leave it on the ground. Instead of simply dropping the goods into the bag, I am to kneel, pretending to fasten my lace. That way the items can be easily slotted between the open teeth of the bag. Bend, kneel, slot. Say it: Bend, kneel, slot. I wanted to say they forgot ‘take’. There was little use for bend, kneel, slot without take. I’d be slotting in thin air. I remember it like this: TBKS.

  I remind them my new shoes are slip-on. They say it doesn’t matter. It does to me. Balling up a wad of toilet paper, I push as much of it as I can into the breast pocket of my gingham dress. A couple of stitches snap, which leaves a hole that my little finger can wriggle through. A quick glance in the mirror reveals one gobstopper breast. I start again, folding the tissue into a flat rectangle. Instead of using my shoe, I plan a pretend sneeze, dropping then picking up the tissue instead of tying laces I don’t have. They said my attempt was okay last time, given that it was my first.

  This time they expect me to get two large jars of coffee and four tins of boneless salmon. If you’re going to do it, do it properly.

  They don’t hand me the bag until we are near the shop. I see Angela, a girl I sit behind in school, walk in ahead of me with her mother. ‘Hi, Robyn,’ she says, waving. I smile and wave back. She is swinging a red vanity case, with a gold lock; she has gold buckles on her shoes.

  I have seen shiny red fabric on the inside of the case. She opens it up sometimes at break time. Tiny loops of thick black elastic have been sewn along the top in a straight line, to hold things high up. A toy red lipstick and nail varnish, a matching pink comb, brush and hand mirror. Everything slots in place, held firm, like Jesus on the cross. Felt-tipped pens, pencils and rubbers can fit inside too. They rest on the bottom of the case, like a crowd. You’d never fit a jar of coffee inside.

  Angela looks over. She lets go of her mother’s hand and walks towards me. ‘Want to come to mine to play?’ Her voice is sweet, like lemon bonbons.

  ‘Don’t know.’ I fidget.

  ‘I’ve got skates.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I catch her looking and hide the bag behind my back.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll go and ask.’ She pulls her mother by the hand and walks back over to me. ‘Hello, Robyn, Angela wants you to come over to play this afternoon. Is your mum around so I can ask her?’

  ‘No … She’ll let me though.’

  ‘You’re not here alone, are you?’

  ‘No. My mum’s meeting me by the chippy.’

  ‘Do you know where we live?’ Angela asks.

  ‘Yes, next door to Mangum’s shop. I only live round the corner, in the Gardens.’

  ‘See you at four then. Stay for tea till six?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They walk away.

  Dizzy at the thought of spending two hours with the vanity case, I finish my task without using the toilet paper. I check what I’ve taken: two large jars of coffee and four tins of salmon. I zip up the bag. It closes easily. All that’s left is to buy the biscuits. I bend down and take the coins from my shoe.

  There is a different lady on the till. She has thick lines between her brows that bunch together when she speaks. ‘That’s a big bag for such a small packet of biscuits.’

  ‘It’s got spuds in it. They’re my mum’s.’ I don’t wait for the change.

  ‘Did you get it all?’

  ‘Yes.’ I lift the bag up towards them but they don’t take it.

  ‘You were quick. That’s it. Quick means not getting caught, quick and quiet.’ As they speak, my heart beats faster and our pace quickens all the way home.

  Inside, they take the bag. The contents are carefully lined up on the floor. As they say a name, they tap each item.

  ‘Coffee for old Alf, he’ll buy a jar after a kiss from me,’ Mum says. ‘And Mag, we bought that clapped out record player off her.’ She smiles. ‘We can go out tonight now.’

  Dad’s eyes flash. ‘Tom’ll be up to his eyes in Guinness when we get there. He’ll take two tins of salmon. I’ll rev Joan up a bit, she’ll take a tin. We’ll sell them, ask Eve for a stay behind.’

  I ask to play out. They don’t look up when they say yes.

  It is a sunny Saturday, but the sun isn’t a warm sun. I skip all the way to Angela’s house, feet rubbing inside new shoes I got for Christmas. I know they won’t be back from the shops yet, so I sit on the pavement across the road and wait. A bedroom window is open and I can hear a song being played. You better beware if you’ve got long black hair.

  My hair is dark brown, cut just below my chin. I have a few freckles around my nose that I don’t like, but the ones on my arms are like squashed chocolate drops. My ankles are so skinny I can span them with my hand. I take off my new shoes. My toes are nasty. Long and thin. The second toe is longer than the big toe and, when we do PE, some of the kids laugh and say it means I will kiss girls when I grow up, on the lips. When I show my toes to my nan she says take no notice. It means you’re going to be a ballet dancer.

  I rub my cold feet in my palms. Finally, Angela turns the corner with her mother. I slip my socks and shoes back o
n and walk over. ‘You’re early,’ her mum says with a smile. ‘Hold this for me while I find my keys.’

  Peeping inside the bag, I see candles, Nulon hand cream, coffee and massive bandages like my mother has. Angela takes me up to her room. She has a picture of a man on the wall above her bed. He looks kind around the eyes. He is wearing a cream suit with a red flower in his lapel. She tells me his name is David Cassidy. Her big sister Kate doesn’t like him any more, as she likes Donny Osmond now, so she gave her the poster. Angela tells me Donny Osmond is nowhere near as cute as David. He can’t even sing. She tells me she’s going to marry a pop star when she grows up.

  We play outside on the step with her dolls. They have a back yard, but her mum says we have to play in the front because the bin men are on strike and it stinks in the yard. Angela says she saw a rat inside one of the rubbish boxes. She gets her skates out and I have a try with one for a long time. She does the same with the other. Up and down the street with the same skate until our legs ache.

  Angela’s mum comes to check on us. ‘One of your legs will grow longer than the other doing that.’ She laughs.

  When she walks back inside I try with two skates. I fall and cut my knee. Angela shouts her mum. She cleans the blood away and puts a plaster on it so I can’t bend my knee when I walk. I’m glad she didn’t see me fall.

  Angela’s dad looks like David Cassidy. He has dark hair with long sideburns. He gets out of his car and locks the door. There are no other cars in the street. ‘Hiya, gorgeous.’ He tickles her under the chin then turns to me. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Robyn, my friend.’ He fluffs up my hair.

  ‘This is my dad, he’s a ’lectrician,’ she says proudly.

  I don’t know what my dad is, so I say nothing.

  We play until it’s time to eat. Angela says I can play with the vanity case after tea. We have mashed potato and minced meat in gravy, with tinned peaches and conny-onny milk for dessert. At the table her parents sit close to each other and laugh out loud.

  ‘I got the candles for tonight’s blackout, love,’ her mum says.

  ‘No need. I’ll string up the car headlight bulbs, one in the living room and one in the kitchen. Keep them for the bedroom, for later, eh love?’ He winks.

  ‘You’re so clever.’

  She leans over and they kiss, right there in front of me and Angela.

  After we help clear away the dishes, it’s time to go back outside to play with the vanity case. No sooner have I sat on the step and flipped open the lock than I hear my name being shouted. I close the case, put it on the step and stand.

  Angela stands up too and looks where I’m looking.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  At the end of the street my mum’s face thin and pale against her pillar-box lips. ‘Where the fuck have you been? We thought you were lost. Your father’s searched all over, across to the big square and everything. Get here now. We’re waiting to go out.’

  Avoiding Angela’s stare, I run down the street. I’m thinking, why can’t I have a better life than this?

  2

  There are five squares altogether in Sir Thomas White Gardens, or Tommy Whites as we call it. The big square is right in the middle, with four smaller squares branching off at its corners. Our square faces St Domingo Road, behind the church of Our Lady Immaculate. The priest’s house is on the other side of the road, right opposite the church. We can see cars and buses crawling by from our front door because there are no flats opposite to block the view.

  Two squares sit on the right of the big square, two on the left. We live with Nan in a two-bedroom flat on the second floor.

  The ground-floor flats come with front yards. When the weather is warm, grown-ups fold their arms and lean over the landings to smoke, flicking grey ash down into a neighbour’s front yard. Older boys sniff up hard, drop thick balls of snot to the backs of their throats, edging them to the tip of their tongues, ready to gob down. If you’re unlucky and live in a ground-floor flat, ash and green gooey spit can end up in your hair.

  On every landing there is a chute where we empty rubbish. It all drops down into a massive bin on the ground floor. The door of the chute is made from heavy iron, with bits of everyone’s rubbish stuck to the inside of it. A visit to the chute after five o’clock will reveal what was for tea that night. Eggshells, potato peelings, beans, soggy bread crusts, tea bags and plenty of brown cigarette ends that remind me of unwashed teeth. For something so heavy, the chute door only makes a slight thudding noise when it closes against the dark furry stuff that grows around the edges.

  I hate going to the chute. It stinks. I hold my nose and close my eyes. Sometimes I open my eyes and find half the rubbish on the landing floor, like now. Only I’ve missed it completely. I leave the mess there. Close the front door before anybody spots me. Nan answers the door when Mrs Naylor knocks to tell. Her bottom lip drops when she speaks, revealing too much gum. She has thick lines either side of the crotch part on her cream trousers; they match the lines under her eyes. There are red stains down the front of her blouse. She catches me looking at them, tuts, tries to rub them away.

  ‘You want to watch that granddaughter of yours, got the divil in her.’

  I have to kneel down and pick it all up with her on the step as she tuts and shakes her head. She always sticks her head in and out of her doorway waiting for the thud of the chute door, she’ll spy the shadow of a body passing her window. Mrs Frost comes out with her daughter, Anne, each carrying a bag full of rubbish. Mrs Naylor pats Anne’s head. ‘There are nice kids that live on our block.’ She points a twiggy finger at me. ‘See what I caught this little divil doing? I was after her like a bullet. No respect.’ She looks down at me with eyes the colour of smoke. ‘And don’t be giving me them black looks, cheeky cow. It wasn’t me that created this mess.’

  We should wear special chute clothes, like beekeepers, with long gloves, a mask and everything. That way she’ll never find out who drops what. Pile it all on her step until it blocks up the doorway and she’ll never get out. Let her feed off the scraps, grope with two thin fingers through her letterbox, scratch away at the stinking heap, until she shuffles something through the gap and it drops onto the floor, and she’ll squeal because she believes she has hit the jackpot.

  When I’ve finished, I sit on the settee. Nan opens the living-room door. She is holding a cup in one hand, a pinny in the other. Her legs are half-past five on a clock. You notice it most when she stands up straight, against her stick. She blames the doctors.

  ‘All done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are they still in bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll make a quick cuppa. Wash this pinny through in the sink while I’m at it. Want anything to eat?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She closes the kitchen door.

  Nan washes every day in the sink.

  Mum does a weekly wash in the bath. She puts the clothes in first, fills up the bath with hot water, adds a little cold then sprinkles OMO washing powder all over the top for a Bright Fresh Cleanness. The bathroom smells chalky sweet. Kneeling down, she swooshes the water to make the suds bubble up. She’s brisk. She pushes one item at a time up and down in the water, rubs away stains until she’s satisfied it’s as clean as it’s going to be. Then she rinses it in cold water. She wrings it out with her hands, squeezing out every last drop of water, until it sits, like a fat twisted snake, on the side of the bath.

  After the clothes are rinsed, her hands are red and wrinkled. The mangle is used to wring the clothes out even more. No matter how much she rinses in the cold water, the mangle still squeezes out a line of white soapy bubbles. The twisted snakes come out of the rollers like the skin on the top of Nan’s bad leg. I hear my dad’s shirt buttons crack as they roll through. Then it’s time to peg out. That’s my job, now I’m taller.

  The washing line is an adult’s arm’s length away, over the landing. I can’t quite reach, so I have to lean forward on m
y tiptoes, belly on the landing wall, reaching outwards for the rope, my middle finger pointing to the sky.

  In my nightmares, I see Mrs Naylor creep up behind me. She bellows down my ear, ‘Boo!’ I’m falling over the landing in a panic, yelling for help, trying to grip onto the washing line, Mrs Naylor’s grey curly mop visible above the line; I fall down, pick up speed as I go, hurtling towards the ground.

  Now, as I reach for the washing line, the pile of wet washing slung over my shoulder drags me nearer to the ground than I want to go.

  My finger hooks the line. I pull it towards me and begin my task. I can hang five items on the line using just six pegs, leave the knickers till last. Tell Mum there’s no room left.

  Most of the pegs are clipped onto my clothes with one clamped firmly between my teeth to start me off. I don’t want to lose the line and have to lean out again. I overlap corners to share one peg. Towels and jeans are the worst; the fabric is too thick to overlap. Pegs give up under the strain and catapult down into front yards to join the casserole of ash and spit.

  Sometimes, if I lose concentration, our clothes end up there too, and I have to leg it down the stairs and get them. Rub snot and ash off Dad’s faded Levi’s. Then hang them out, like it never happened. Nan says you should check pockets for holes in case pennies fall out and are lost. If you push your hands inside wet pockets the fabric is thin and crumpled like it’s not meant to last. It’s hard to get your hand back out of wet pockets.

  Now I follow Nan out onto the landing and sit while she pegs out her pinny. We have a small front step that is cool to sit on in the summer. It has brown square tiles, with an eight-inch concrete border on the edge, painted black by my dad. Nan mops it every day with pine bleach. I watch the light patches spread across the dark patches as it dries. Mrs Naylor walks along the landing. She’s changed her clothes. She looks down at me.

  ‘Taking in lodgers now, May?’ she says. ‘Council know?’

  Nan does not turn from the washing line.